


Rapper's Despair

by Mtorolite



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Domestic, Drabble, Gamzee's memory is not very good, Gen, Humanstuck, Moirails, Slam Poetry, palebros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mtorolite/pseuds/Mtorolite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gamzee can't remember the beat or the words to a rap he heard, and Karkat uses Google for his own sanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rapper's Despair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apologija](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apologija/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The First Days of Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/562935) by [apologija](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apologija/pseuds/apologija). 



There were three things in life of which Karkat Vantas was sure: firstly, ninety-four percent of the population were complete idiots; secondly, his past self undeniably fell into that category; and thirdly, his life was an exercise in futility. He was reminded pointedly of this last truism when he opened the door to his loft only to be confronted with his roommate tapping out a beat with a pudding spoon. On the beige carpet. 

“Why the hell do I come home, after an excrutiatingly mind-numbing day of pointless classes, followed by grocery shopping, which, at the best of times, is a dull and annoying chore, but when they are calling for snow turns into a dry run of purgatory, and then waiting in line for YOUR special cereal covered donuts, and expecting you to have done the three things on your list for the day, one of which was to simply not make a mess? Shower, dishes, and don’t mess anything up - did you do any of that? I don’t think so, because you still smell like a twelve year old’s gym sock that has clung like a barnacle to the damp inside of a locker for two months and is gradually dissolving into a contorted, gelatin esque mass of string and mold. And you are still getting fucking pudding in the carpet!”

Gamzee looked up at Karkat from his tapping, and was surprised that he hadn’t noticed the teetering pyramid of pudding cups. Karkat had resorted to stocking the fridge with fat-free and sugar-free pudding cups since the Great Zebra Cake Battle of late March. He said it let Gamzee satisfy his sweet tooth without leading to a fine coating of crumbs across the entire living room and early onset diabetes. He suspected that once he saw the pyramid, Karkat would stop buying them in bulk, and Gamzee would have to venture out on his own more often to obtain his snacks. 

“Sorry, bro - that wicked amorphous solid must have gone and and snuck of my spoon while I was trying to recollect this recall of a rap what I heard on the glow box earlier. Something about a hippy dippy bang boogie or some other motherfucking beat.” 

“As delighted as I am that you are attempting to remember something that is neither your bus route or the full name of the Ben and Jerry’s flavor you like, you need to get off your odious bum and get the pudding out of the carpet,” Karkat snarled as he marched the groceries and donuts into the kitchen. He was gratified that Gamzee had at least managed to finish the dishes between pudding cups, and there was plenty of space on the counter. He grabbed a rag and ran it under hot water.

Gamzee came in with his arms full of empty pudding cups, trying to hide the quantity as they cascaded into the trash can. “Say, best friend, you remember any of them famous raps by them motherfuckers what introduced them in times past? The television was up and showing all about it but I spaced the fuck out with my pudding during the last half.”

“The only famous rap that I have the acute displeasure of being aware of is “Ice Ice Baby,” and I’m not sure that even counts as a real rap. Now, take this rag, scrub out the pudding, and go get in the shower.” 

Gamzee scratched at his chin and looked at the white makeup that had flaked off. He guessed he did need a wash after all.

“Naw, this weren’t some up front audible torture, these guys were some personages that could spin some gorgeous beats, probably on someone’s granddaddy’s Vitrola, though.” 

“I will spend the ten minutes it takes to help you get to google and search for this famous old timey rap so you can listen on repeat until your ears finally surrender, you abandon ICP, and listen to top 40s like the rest of the world once both our carpet and your body are clean.”

“I think you’ll like these rhymes a far sight better than - -”

“If the pudding sets in the carpet, you’re going to be spinning sick rhymes in the rain for the next three months so you can pay to have it steam cleaned from your very own pocket!”

Half an hour later, Gamzee had finally made it into the shower, and was apparently having a hell of a time trying to remember the words, because Karkat kept hearing nonsense phrases from the shower. 

“Bippity boogie . . . hippie hop the don’t stop . . . come on hoppity hip to the purple and red to the orange and brown see I’m six foot one and . . .”

Gamzee occasionally took long showers, but after forty minutes of the increasingly off key blathering, Karkat had had enough. He ventured onto Google himself, and shortly found a video of “Rapper’s Delight” on youtube. It seemed close enough to whatever Gamzee was mangling. 

Dragging on of their beaten up kitchen chairs to the door of the bathroom, Karkat opened it by an inch, set up the laptop, and turned up the volume.

“It’s on repeat, so PLEASE STOP SINGING WHATEVER IT IS YOU ARE TRYING TO SING.”

**Author's Note:**

> for Apologija, inspired by the "Scandalous Bromance in Portland" belonging to her and tactfulGrimalkin, and a dream I had after dozing off to VH1.


End file.
